That Magic Moment
by SpicyCheese
Summary: "It's never easy for me to be… vulnerable."


That Magic Moment

At first, he thought it was fatigue. Three days, no sleep, hardly any food, ending in a ship exploding and helping to pull victims out of the frigid water. He blamed it on the exhaustion. Of course he would be able to process it, parse it out, and understand _it_, later. Perhaps after a kip. Or a hot tea.

But no. It has been _days_ now, and still it lingers. Nipping at the back of his skull. Ticking away at him slowly. Chinese water torture. The puzzle of it, the impossible puzzle of it, is one he has not been able to solve _yet_.

Supine and barefoot, Sherlock stretches out on the couch, determined to mull everything over and determine what it all means. He closes his eyes, steeples hands under his chin and breathes.

John is in the kitchen, chopping carrots. Loudly. It echoes through the apartment, pulsing under his eyelids, _mocking_ him. John has been blissfully unaware of his effect on him. Unaware how his mere presence has upset him so fully. So completely.

John has no idea how he's ruined everything Sherlock thought he knew about himself.

Cases have a way of exhausting both of them, especially cases such as this that drag on for days. Part of their post-case routine often includes long silent cab rides back to the flat, both taking time to absorb it all.

_Loose Lips Sink Ships_… John plays with the case's title for the blog. This is part of his unwinding. Normally Sherlock uses these cab rides to fall _directly_ to sleep – long limbs splayed at odd angles and mouth open never more than a sliver; this serene sight is also part of John's unwinding. This ride seems different however; Sherlock is not only awake, but seems… rattled. Gunfire, the ship exploding, and the frantic rescue are the kind of situations Sherlock _thrives_ on.

He decides to let it lie. He's exhausted. He'd stuck around to help out with the victims, doing his best to settle their nerves, and Sherlock's now intensely furrowed brow is the least of his concerns.

John catches him looking his way. "Problem?"

"No."

He stares at John when he thinks John's not looking. As much as he's been accused of not understanding social norms, he does know that staring is uncouth. He's watched John tie his shoes, examine a body, and now… eat spaghetti. He can't help it; he can't understand it.

He's never felt this way before. And it's everyday. Every moment. Every second - he thinks only of John and how he did it. Did _this_ to him. Unraveled him.

"Sherlock?"

He blinks slowly. There is sauce at the corner of John's mouth. Taunting him with its ridiculousness.

"Sherlock? You're staring…"

"Just thinking John. Quiet yourself."

Sherlock is aloof even in the best of moods, but lately he's been… attentive. For the past few weeks John has caught Sherlock looking at him.

No, not exactly looking. _Staring_. And John is feeling more than a little uncomfortable with it. But no, uncomfortable isn't quite the right word for it; if there's a word for how a stomach full of butterflies makes your feel, _that's_ the right word. It's a look with something behind it. What that something is, John doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care. All this attention, Sherlock's _rapt_ attention, is nice. It feels… nice. He smiles as he slurps the last of his spaghetti.

Lestrade is bringing them out to a bog to see a body. Sherlock follows behind the detective inspector.

His mind is on a different body, however. He's been thinking lately about John's. Perhaps that's part of what has him confused. Perhaps there's something special about it that Sherlock isn't fully aware of? Could that be part of it? As he ponders, John trips. Sherlock catalogues it. The fall is clumsy - awkward arms swing wildly at the air to no avail - John lands in the sinkhole with a squishy 'plop'.

Sherlock watches as John wrestles himself up. The sucking, gooping mess of it all, mud and peet head to toe. He winces internally, both at the ungraceful slop of a man before him and his own torn feelings. John's body. As much he'd normally avoid the mess of it all, he unwittingly springs into action.

He helps John up. Pats him down, categorizing as he does. John makes a face.

"Sherlock?"

He straightens up. "Just making sure you're all right. No perceivable damage. So John, if you don't mind let's get on with it?" He sweeps past the human disaster. This is getting under his skin; a spontaneous body search? He's acting impulsively and it is terribly unsettling. He'll have to think about this later. It's been weeks already and these feelings are starting to affect his work.

What was _that_? He tripped. As he's cursing his two left feet, Sherlock swoops in and… feels him up? Well, not really. Sort of… patted him down? It couldn't have been more than three seconds. His hands managed to cover almost every last inch of him, all at once. _All_ at once.

Sherlock is inspecting the crime scene as if nothing has happened.

John squats to look at the body, glancing back at Sherlock. Later tonight, John will allow himself a moment – but only just a moment – to read more into this than he should, but for now, he'll remind himself that trying to figure out the 'why's' of Sherlock is pointless.

He watches John button his cardigan, the corner of his paper flapped down to properly take in the sight. He watches him miss a hole, buttoning off almost all the way to the top before realizing, swearing under his breath and starting over. It's all Sherlock can do not to jump up, reach out, _grasp_ those fingers. Examine them up close. He's longed to test their deftness. Discover their secrets, see what they can do. He's ached to do this.

Every.

Day.

Earlier, he almost succumbed to that impulse… This is becoming worse. It needs to end. He must confront John about these feelings tonight.

"I'll be back in a bit. Need anything from the store?"

Sherlock can only shake his head slowly. Tonight. He will confront him tonight.

"Right then, I'm off." Sherlock waits until he hears the front door close before he springs up to begin preparing.

John examines his hands as he waits for a cab. Nothing new happening with them. No reason for Sherlock to be fascinated with them…

He takes good care of his hands as any good doctor and surgeon would. Their work is hard - often out in the cold, the rain - chaffing and wear is normal. John moisturizes. He wears gloves when he can. Okay, so maybe he's had a manicure once or twice, but that's totally normal.

Earlier today, Sherlock tried to hold his hand. Hmmm, no, not exactly tried to hold his hand but…

He had been selecting a jumper for the day and Sherlock had come up from behind him, as silently and creepily as ever.

"No, no, not that one." And as Sherlock said it, he grabbed John's hand from the one he was about to select. There was this moment… as John thinks of it, it gives him a little shiver.

Sherlock had held onto his hand for an extra moment and… sort of _caressed_ it before he let go. Smoothed his fingers over the back of it before roughly shoving a different garment into his grasp.

"Here." Sherlock had said, as a weird look flashed before he turned and stalked back to the couch.

Sherlock does not _touch_ without reason. Sherlock doesn't do anything without reason. Or touch. At all. Yet John can recall several times over the past few week. He all but groped him in that bog…

Could Sherlock be…

And what if…

It's possible that…

No. No to all. All of the above. This is absurd, and exactly what he gets for letting his mind run away with him.

Sherlock thinks.

He hasn't felt this confused and awkward since adolescence. He hears the key in the lock, and sits down.

Time to put this to bed, so to speak.

"What's all this now?" John sets the bags on the counter. Sherlock has made sure the room was inviting, comfortable. The fire is expertly made, candles lit, he's even picked up a bit. Settled on the couch, Sherlock gestures for John to sit beside him. John opts for his own chair, face askew with confusion. Sherlock steadies himself for what will be a difficult conversation. Maybe the hardest of his life thus far.

"John," he begins, taking in the man before him. "I am not always forthright with my feelings."

"Well that is a shock-" John begins, before Sherlock raises a hand to stop him.

"_John, please_." The snap is involuntary, and rattles him, just another sign that he needs to get this out of him so he can get back to the way things were. He begins again. "It's never easy for me to be… vulnerable." He winces at the word internally. "Something has happened to me, and I find myself… confused. This feeling. I've never dealt with it before."

John's face contorts slowly as his brain grasps for traction, trying to keep up. Sherlock barely notes look of hope, and the growing smile before he continues. "Approximately fourteen weeks ago, on January 12th, you performed a magic trick for a little girl the day of that boat explosion, and I need to know how you did it."

He's perplexed. The budding smile on John's face falls. His mouth twists, instead to a confused scowl.

"Well?"

The sound of John's bedroom door slamming seems to punctuate the "Never" and "Sod off!" thrown over his shoulder.


End file.
